She ceased.
Homer's eyes left her face, to look about the desolate room. The wood fire was dying for lack of attention, and the air was growing colder.
"But how am I to make it easier for you?" he asked, at length.
"You can't make it easier for me," she said. "'I have made my own bed,' as grandmother often said, and must lie on it. I went against the world's ways, and I suppose it's only right now to expect the world to be against me. No one can help me but him."
"Who is he, Myron?" asked Homer; and she saw a sly, venomous look light his eyes.
"Homer!" she said, her voice holding reproach and interrogation.
"Yes, I would," he said. "I would kill him as readily as I would set my heel on a snake. Widows marry!" There was an ugly emphasis on the word, an emphasis that held unconsciously somewhat of the derision of a sneer. But the sneer was turned against his own impotence.
"You are frightening me," said Myron, and the words brought him to himself.
He rose, drawing her to her feet beside him. "You are right, of course, Myron," he said. "But—this is the second time I have loved—you remember the girl I brought to the farm one day? Well, I loved her. She and I were to have been married, but I had to come back to the farm, and she changed her mind. Since then I have been a fool—worse, indeed. I have set aside everything for the sake of money. I was fast getting to be such another as old Haines or Jacob Latshem—all pocket and no heart. But I saw your courage, and it made me think shame of myself. You saved me—I thought to save you. It would seem as if I had offered you another shame. You know how little I care what people say of you! Poor girl, they can't say worse than they have done. So, will you let me do what I can to make things better for you? You know I have plenty. Will you let me be your friend, to help you, comfort you, and to see you and talk with you, as friend does with friend?"
"Dare you?" she asked.